Grey Sky
by AmethystDragons
Summary: Simple meetings can mean the most. Modern-Day AU; Prequel to Grey World. Sinja.


The first time Sin sees the boy, it's raining.

Storming, actually. Not quite thunder-and-lightning, not yet, but large raindrops are pelting down with enough force that Sinbad has to concentrate on keeping his umbrella steady. His rainbow-and-pink-polka-dots umbrella, because screw conforming to society's standards, Sin can damn well be fabulous if he wants to and no one can say otherwise.

The bus stop shelter is a little more than a glorified phone booth, really only meant to cover a handful of people in a light drizzle. This is anything but, and people are packed into it like proverbial sardines. Sin's standing outside, because he won't melt and he's a good person and would rather those two adorable kids sitting huddled next to their mommy in the corner be dry than wincing from the sting of wind-blown rain. Sin's annoyed by the number of adults - businessmen and the like - who have shouldered others aside in their haste to be dry.

As he's shifting hands to make sure his umbrella doesn't blow away, Sin sees him.

He's standing right outside the booth, barely visible around the curve of the wall, but Sin can tell he's pressed right-shoulder first tight up against the barrier. Not that it does much good - the wind is whipping the rain right into Sin's face - probably why he didn't notice the other until now - and it effectively cuts off any protection the wall may have offered, should the wind blow another way. He's short, too - even hunched over as he is, Sin guesses that standing up straight the top of his head would barely clear the top of Sin's shoulder. White hair droops in straggles and messily plastered locks against his face, and thin little hands clench around the thin grey oversized jacket pulled like a shield around his torso. Strangely - and yet not so at all - Sin endearingly thinks he looks like a bedraggled kitten.

It's the bandages that rivet his attention the most.

White bandages. At least, they would be white if they weren't rain-soaked. As it is, they are more of a sodden dirty-grey, weeping drips of water that flow in rivulets down faintly freckled cheeks. They are wrapped around his head, covering his eyes in a crude but effective blindfold. Even though the boy's head is lowered, the shock of seeing something so... out of place draws Sinbad's attention like a magnet.

His face, Sin thinks, looks oddly blank without the template of eyes and eyebrows to base expression.

He wonders what the boy's eyes look like.

Then, _how does he get around?_

Sin glances around at the tight compact huddle of people, and without second thought disengages himself from his half-sheltered spot to slip over to the boy, who is pulling his jacket tighter still around his body. Sin doesn't say a word (over the noise of the city and rain, it was doubtful he'd be heard anyway). Instead, he simply places his body between the boy and the wall, raising his umbrella to better protect the two of them.

The boy didn't react to Sin's presence at first, but he does notice the sudden lack of rain. His head lifts, fluidly, and Sin re-amends his earlier statement - this is no kitten, this is a full-grown cat, feline of face and grace and presence. His head swings slowly, back and forth, as though gauging the lack of dampness, then he lifts a slim hand (and underneath the curve of his too-large sleeve Sin sees red and crimson, long thin intertwining lines of paint, and the sleeve slips further to reveal the thinnest most intricate tattoo Sin has ever seen, winding into the darkness of his jacket like a snake) and pushes a few dripping locks from his face. Then he turns - his back is now to the wall - and raises that thin, oddly delicate hand out in front of him.

Sin keeps still. Lets those tiny fingers reach out and softly touch the lapels of his coat. Watches them trace, feather-light, down his arm and over the hard plastic shell of the umbrella handle. Those fingers pause, warm and soft, against his own hand, then raise to his face. Sin remains quiet, letting his eyes flutter close as the other maps his face with delicate brushes of finger pads against skin. It doesn't feel strange at all. Rather, almost as though Sin was waiting for this. Waiting for the rain. For the blindfolded boy in the rain with all the grace and delicateness of a desert cat padding over the dunes.

Fingers brush over his lips, and Sin exhales softly against them. There is another pause, longer this time, and then their hands are intertwined around the handle again.

There is silence. Comfortable, despite the rain and the damp rain-soaked chill Sin feels crawling down his back where he is uncovered from the elements. A taxi screeches nearby.

Then the boys speaks. It's barely more than a whisper, but Sin hears him. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." Sin has to close his throat against the sudden onslaught of questions that want to barge out of his brain, interrupted. Bandages and rain and eyes and tattoos and comfort and _have we met bef-_ but he chokes them back and says instead, "Where do you need to go?"

The boy hesitates, his face tipped up to Sin in a manner that makes him desperately wish he could see the other's entire face. Rain. Then, "What street is this?"

"5th and Cherry."

The tip of a red tongue wets those thin chapped lips. "Take me to the corner down a block. There's a cafe..." he pauses, hesitant. "Do you mind?"

Sin's answer is to draw closer, reaching out to gently pry the umbrella from their joined hands with his free one. Their grip adjusts, wordlessly, and now their palms are pressed together, damp and warm. With a sharp shake that sends a flurry of droplets sheeting in all directions, Sin gently pulls the boy away and down the street.

He follows willingly. Steadily, as though nothing was blocking his sight at all, like he'd done this a thousand times before. They don't have to weave around people, but they do stop for traffic, hurrying across the slick street with shoes slapping against wet pavement. It's so natural to have their fingers curled together like this, the boy's thumb nudging against Sin's pointer finger and Sin rubbing gently across the top of his knuckles.

They reach the cafe without any interruption and shelter in the eves beneath. The boy reaches out, tracing the wall until he finds the ledge where the door protrudes. Then he sighs and moves his head in a way as though he were looking back at Sin. "Thank you. Again."

"Sinbad." Sin prompts, feeling a fleeting smile cross his face at the slight tilt of the other's head. "My name is Sinbad."

"Sinbad." Sin likes his name, but he likes it even more coming from those chapped lips. A slight smile tugs the corners of the other's mouth. "A good name." He chews his lip for a moment, then says, quieter, "Ja'far."

Sin immediately commits it to memory.

Then, to his distress, the warmth of the other's palms is fading and the other is turning away. Butterflies flutter in his stomach (_don't go I only just found you_) and he blurts out, "What color are your eyes?"

The other stands still. He's not going to turn. Sin closes his eyes.

Then he feels that familiar touch of fingers against his chin, gently raising his head. "Look." At the other's prompt, Sin looks.

The rain has almost stopped.

The clouds are grey.

That is a lie.

They are a multicolored shift of silvers and light and shadows, dancing with the shimmer of far-off raindrops.

It's one of the most beautiful things Sin has ever seen.

He feels himself holding his breath, willing time to slow. To preserve this scene into memory.

Then a small body is leaning gently into him, and a warm breath ghosts across his cheek. Sin's eyes flutter, and he hears that soft voice whisper,

_"I have stood at the edge of the world once or twice..._

_And thus found that silence is seldom an ending."_

"We _have_ met before," Sin breathes. Rationally, logically, he has never seen the boy before - in this life.

But they had met.

His heart confirmed it.

He could almost feel the other's smile, and then soft, soft lips were presses against his cheek.

Sin closed his eyes again.

When he opens them again, the boy is gone. But he's not worried.

They always meet again. Always have. Always will.

He'll see his grey-sky-eyed love again.

END


End file.
